Tag: GOM

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound. The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.

He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer. His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.

The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him. Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.

He was prepared to do it. He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why. He was there to kill anyone he saw. It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.

He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall. He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat. He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest

The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms. He enjoyed it—it got him hard. He knew he’d found his place in life. He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.

So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some. He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter. He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.

Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows. Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.

Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.

Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk. The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away. So he paused. This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath. He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation. Mac could see his target, but just barely. It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.

Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped. In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.

He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack. He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.

The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone. He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…

Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat. The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.

Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe. The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity. He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.

Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine. Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward. As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.

The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound. Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out. Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…

As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder. As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.

Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward. He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.

Frank wondered what Joey was doing. He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself. He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.

Frank’s face was colder and more soulless. He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago. He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill. Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust. Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.

The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur. Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots. A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.

He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready. From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife. Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face. His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.

And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.

The attack was swift, silent, and brutal. Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.

Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one. He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.

Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it. The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move. His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.

Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.

Not that anyone needed to be told. Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.

And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it. Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.

Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots. When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.

Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all. Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion. In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood. The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.

All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently. He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.

Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground. As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes. Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.

There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him. Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead. This last guard would know where the item was inside. Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.

The last guard was in his early thirties. He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.

A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped. Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted. His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.

He was good, but he wasn’t too good. Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap. They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.

He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence. He wasn’t unaware for long, though.

The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow. A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him. A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth. The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed. At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.

“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper. “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer. Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood. Ya feel me?” He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.

“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank. It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles. The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.

“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said. “Start talkin’. You know what I’m here for—where is it?”

“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough. If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.” Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure. A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared. “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig. Now talk, damn you!”

The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced. “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly. “It’s in there.”

“How many men between here and there?”

“None, man, we’re it. No one’s s’possed to know it’s here. How the fuck did you find out?”

“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.

The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts. His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s. “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”

Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso. It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.

Stepping back, Mac held his knife up. The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations. His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.

It was his last mistake. As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.

His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts. He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak. He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.

“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks. Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.” And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick. As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.

Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face. With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.

“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered. Then the guard’s eyes dilated. He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.

Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east. He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo. Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz. He’d gotten angry at the delay. Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

Someone was gonna die tonight. Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

Nick was out of town. He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday. Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend. With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo. It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car. Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat. His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks. A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin. He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood. Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants. There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated. After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

That was when he saw the boy.

He had come to a stop at a stop sign. The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself. Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders. Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee. On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops. Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in. “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised. Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude. The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol. “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation. The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

Good. Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly. “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class. My place is a coupla miles north.” Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in. As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances. He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin. Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes. “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg. Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence. He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided. “Goddam,” he muttered. His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s. The muscle-bound sadist chuckled. Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him. Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though. He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans. The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

Kris gasped. The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large. Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft. Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin. He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor. Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos. He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos. Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts. He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

It didn’t matter. The dude had the body of a god. And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more. Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded…

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie. Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum. The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker! Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat. The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe. His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

Kris heard him. His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him. His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils. Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably. Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat. Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum. His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls. Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor. He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum. It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock. The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch. Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck. And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage. The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin. In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer. “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from. I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie. The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business. Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision. He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more. At least four or five big ones, man.”

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice. “We had an agreement.”

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man. I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue. He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead. “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles. He suspected he was gonna get ripped off. “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him. “I wanna see yer cash, dude. Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke. I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted. What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard. He just never thought it’d happen to him.

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily. Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was. “So what’s it gonna be, dawg? Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.” The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth. “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt? Huh? That feel good, cocksucker? Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself. He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john. He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

So he bolted for the door.

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped. Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him. Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror. The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder. When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt. As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view. Suddenly, Carlos squatted down. Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone. The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor. “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling. Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat. Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound. The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck. The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip. After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it. As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat. Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha. It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats. But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet. His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather. Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage. The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder. “How much was it, cunt? How much didja want me to pay?”

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned. With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear? How much? How much didja want, faggot?”

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain. There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

Carlos’s face twisted in anger. “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw. “It was two-fifty, yeah? That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit? You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

He punctuated his contempt with another blow. Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

Not that it mattered. Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch. His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply. The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert? Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock? Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial. Ha! Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh? Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all. With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass. Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed. He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath. His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest. His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax. The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders. Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube. If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked. While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale. He succeeded—but not for long.

His mistake was screaming. Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try. The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all. He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny. He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags. It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage. He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock. Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway. Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh? Yeah, ya like that idea? Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot? Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump? It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts. I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose. Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

Then he realized he was suffocating.

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration. Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face. The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex. Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain. The boy knew what the jingling sound had been. The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain. Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over. Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more. Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

But there was other pain. His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites. His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter. And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

And then the pain got really bad. It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream. When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body. One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way. The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break. He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now. It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know? Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out. If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now. His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars. His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts. His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it. Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt! Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue? I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out! Ya know what that means? It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence. Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom. His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement. As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick. It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

Carlos had noticed it too. “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face. “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha? Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit? Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig! This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out? You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation. His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops. As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back. Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

As a result, their faces were close together at the end. Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch. I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off. I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on. Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass. So ya ready to get this done? I sure the fuck am, scumbag. Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could. Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft. His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view. Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head. His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim. His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse. He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself. Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful. The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.

Tom stood alone in the dark and lighted a cigarette. He was cold and slightly bored but he had a job to do. He was standing guard.

No job for a professional, he thought. He was a hired killer, not a sentry. But the pay was good and all he had to do was make sure that no one went down the dirt track he was watching. He didn’t know why he needed to watch it and he didn’t need to know.

All he needed to know was that he was to kill anyone who appeared on the dirt road from which the track led. Someone wanted some privacy.

Tom wore jeans over black tactical boots. He had on a leather biker jacket, zipped up against the cold. A black knit cap fit tightly over his head. With a rifle in his hands and a knife in his boot, he felt ready for anything.

He had a hard, fit body to match his hard, cold mind. Tom was in his early thirties and had killed many men in many ways. He was familiar with sudden violent death and had watched men gasp away their last few seconds in shock and pain.

Someday it could happen to him. But not if he kept on his toes. And tonight, Mike was watching his back. He’d worked with Mike before and trusted him.

Mike had gone to check out the surroundings a little further down the road. His appearance was similar to Tom’s—same age, same cold face and hard body. His jeans, boots and cap were like Tom’s too, but he wore an olive green nylon jacket. He was as experienced a killer as Tom and could take care of any problems quickly and efficiently.

Tom took another drag on his cigarette. He wouldn’t be smoking if he thought there was a chance for some action, but he knew there was no one but Mike around for miles.

But for once his killer instinct let him down. As he took a third drag, he was unaware that he was being stalked and set up for a kill.

When it happened, it happened fast. Tom barely knew what hit him.

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his lips. At the same time, a knife sheared through his leather jacket and plunged into his kidney in a burst of agony.

Shock flooded Tom’s body. He went up on his toes and bent backwards to escape the pain. He could feel the muscles of his killer’s chest against his back and hear his ragged breath in his ears. But the pain was what held him frozen—the pain and the adrenalin shock.

The killer’s arm held Tom like a steel trap as the knife was twisted viciously in the wound. The gloved hand sealed his mouth, his screams of pain reduced to muffled groans.

Then the knife was removed and the hand was grabbing his chin. Tom could open his mouth but deep shock prevented him from doing more than gasping. He felt himself pulled backwards so that his chest was exposed but he had no control of his body and was powerless to stop it.

He saw the gloved hand holding the blood-smeared knife a split second before the knife was slammed into his chest. It punctured him with such force that his breath was expelled in a long rattling moan.

Tom stared dully as the hand twisted the knife into this wound. The killer was grinding it, trying to cause as much damage as possible. It also caused as much pain as possible. The injury to his kidney was nothing compared to the searing agony of his quivering heart slicing itself to hamburger on the probing knife.

Tom’s wide, panicked eyes dilated and he lost control of his bowels. The air reeked of piss and shit and sweat—the smell of a dying man. He sank slowly to the ground. His killer left as silently as he had come. Tom twitched on the ground for a while, his eyes glazing into dull terror. He come up against someone who was a better killer than he was and experienced the same violent and painful death he’d dealt out himself.

The faint moans Tom had made in his death agonies hadn’t been heard by Mike. The first clue he had of trouble was his leg being kicked out from under him and his arm being twisted behind his back. He was on his knees with a razor-sharp knife slashing at his throat before he could react. The killer sliced Mike’s throat to ribbons, multiple slashes in a quick burst, cutting deeply through the larynx and esophagus. Then the killer was gone.

Mike knelt in the road, his eyes wide and his face white. His hands clawed in horror at the gaping flesh of his ripped-out throat. A rhythmic jet of blood pulsed from his neck, splashing his hands and the ground in front of him. The gurgling and hissing of his breath in his shredded windpipe grew more frenzied as pink foam bubbled out of the hole in his throat.

Suddenly Mike pitched forward into a pool of his own blood. He struggled for life for a few more seconds, slowly blinking his uncomprehending eyes, opening and closing his mouth as if he was still trying to speak.

His killer was long gone as Mike shuddered to his death alone on the dirt road. The hardman was left to rot in a sticky puddle of his own blood and piss.